"THE COMING QUEEN"
"And whenever she comes she will find me waiting
To do her homage--my queen--my queen!"
How many an aspiring heart has breathed the high chivalrous sentiment,
never before so touchingly expressed, as in the words of this
beautiful song! How many a gallant generous nature has desired with
unspeakable longing to lay its wealth of loyalty and devotion at her
feet who is to prove the coming queen of its affections, the ladye of
its love! And for how many is the unwavering worship, the unfailing
faith, the venture of wealth and honour, the risk of life and limb,
right royally rewarded according to its merits and its claim! I am not
sure that implicit belief, unquestioning obedience, are the qualities
most esteemed by those illustrious personages on whom they are
lavished; and I think that the rebel who sends in his adhesion on his
own terms is sometimes treated with more courtesy and consideration
than the stanch vassal whose fidelity remains unaffected by coldness,
ingratitude, or neglect.
Dick Stanmore, reading in the _Morning Post_ an eloquent account of
Viscount Bearwarden's marriage to Miss Bruce, with the festivities
consequent thereon, felt that he had sadly wasted his loyalty, if
indeed this lady were the real sovereign to whom the homage of his
heart was due. He began now to entertain certain misgivings on that
score. What if he had over-estimated his own admiration and the force
of her attractions? Perhaps his _real_ queen had not come to him after
all. It might be she was advancing even now in her maiden majesty,
as yet unseen, but shedding before her a soft and mellow radiance, a
tender quiver of light and warmth, like that which flushes the horizon
at the break of a summer's day.
His dark hour had been cold and dismal enough. There is nothing to be
ashamed of in the confession. Dick suffered severely, as every manly
nature must suffer when deceived by a woman. He did not blame the
woman--why should he?--but he felt that a calamity had befallen him,
the heaviest of his young experience, and he bore it as best he might.
"_Caelum non animum_" is a very old proverb: his first impulse, no
doubt, was to change the scene, and seek under other skies an altered
frame of mind, in defiance of Horace and his worldly wisdom, so rarely
at fault. In these days a code of behaviour has been established by
society to meet every eventuality of life. When your fortunes are
impaired you winter at Rome; when your liver is affected you travel in
Germany; when your heart is broke you start at once for India. There
is something unspeakably soothing, I imagine, in the swing of an
elephant as he crashes through jungle, beating it out for tigers;
something consolatory to wounded feelings in the grin of a heavy old
tusker, lumbering along, half sulky, half defiant, winking a little
blood-red eye at the pig-sticker, pushing his Arab to speed with a
loose rein ere he delivers the meditated thrust that shall win first
spear. Snipe, too, killed by the despairing lover while standing in a
paddy-field up to his knees in water, with a tropical sun beating on
his head, to be eaten afterwards in military society, not undiluted by
pale ale and brandy-pawnee, afford a relief to the finer feelings of
his nature as delightful as it is unaccountable; while those more
adventurous spirits who, penetrating far into the mountainous regions
of the north-west frontier, persecute the wild sheep or the eland, and
even make acquaintance with the lordly ibex "rocketing" down from crag
to crag, breaking the force and impetus of his leap by alighting on
horns and forehead, would seem to gain in their life of hardship and
adventure an immunity from the "common evil" which lasts them well
into middle age.
Dick Stanmore's first impulse, therefore, was to secure a berth in the
P. and O. steamer at once. Then he reflected that it would not be
a bad plan to stop at Constantinople--one of the Egean islands,
Messina--or, indeed, why go farther than Marseilles? If you come to
that, Paris was the very place for a short visit. A man might spend
a fortnight there pleasantly enough, even in the hot weather, and it
would be a complete change, the eventual result of these deliberations
being a resolve to go down and look after his landed property in the
west of England. I believe that in this determination Mr. Stanmore
showed more wisdom than his friends had hitherto given him credit for
possessing. At his own place he had his own affairs to interest him, a
good deal of business to attend to, above all, constant opportunities
of doing good. This it is, I fancy, which constitutes the real pith
and enjoyment of a country gentleman's life--which imparts zest and
flavour to the marking of trees, the setting of trimmers, the shooting
of partridges, nay, even to the joyous excitement of fox-hunting
itself.
This, too, is a wondrous salve for such wounds as those under which
Dick Stanmore was now smarting. The very comparison of our own sorrows
with those of others has a tendency to decrease their proportions
and diminish their importance. How can I prate of my cut finger in
presence of your broken leg? And how utterly ridiculous would have
seemed Mr. Stanmore's sentimental sorrows to one of his own labourers
keeping a wife and half-a-dozen children on eleven shillings a week?
In the whole moral physic-shop there is no anodyne like duty,
sweetened with a little charity towards your neighbours. Amusement
and dissipation simply aggravate the evil. Personal danger, while
its excitement braces nerve and intellect for the time, is an
over-powerful stimulant for the imagination, and leaves a reaction
sadly softening to the heart. Successful ambition, gratified vanity,
what are these with none to share the triumph? But put the sufferer
through a steady course of daily duties, engrossing in their nature,
stupefying in the monotony of their routine, and insensibly, while his
attention is distracted from self and selfish feelings, he gathers
strength, day by day, till at last he is able to look his sorrow in
the face, and fight it fairly, as he would any other honourable foe.
The worst is over then, and victory a mere question of time.
So Dick Stanmore, setting to work with a will, found sleep and
appetite and bodily strength come back rapidly enough. He had moments
of pain, no doubt, particularly when he woke in the morning. Also at
intervals during the day, when the breeze sighed through his woods,
or the sweetbrier's fragrance stole on his senses more heavily than
usual. Once, when a gipsy-girl blessed his handsome face, adding, in
the fervour of her gratitude, a thousand good wishes for "the lass he
loved, as must love him dear, sure-lie!" but for very shame he could
have cried like a child.
Such relapses, however, were of rarer occurrence every week. It was
not long before he told himself that he had been through the worst of
his ordeal and could meet Lady Bearwarden now without looking like
a fool. In this more rational frame of mind Mr. Stanmore arrived in
London in business at that period of settled weather and comparative
stagnation called by tradesmen the "dead time of year," and found his
late-acquired philosophy put somewhat unexpectedly to the proof.
He was staring at a shop-window in Oxford Street--studying, indeed,
the print of a patent mowing-machine, but thinking, I fear, more of
past scenes in certain well-lit rooms, on slippery floors, than of the
velvet lawns at home--when a barouche drew up to the kerb-stone with
such trampling of hoofs, such pulling about of horses' mouths, such a
jerk and vibration of the whole concern, as denoted a smart carriage
with considerable pretension, a body-coachman of no ordinary calibre.
Dick turned sharply round, and there, not five yards off, was the pale
face, proud, dreamy, and beautiful as of old. Had she seen him? He
hardly knew, for he was sick at heart, growing white to his very
lips--he, a strong healthy man, with as much courage as his
neighbours. Horribly ashamed of himself he felt. And well he might be!
But with more wisdom than he had hitherto shown, he made a snatch at
his hat, and took refuge in immediate retreat. It was his only chance.
How, indeed, could he have met her manfully and with dignity, while
every nerve and fibre quivered at her presence? how endure the shame
of betraying in his manner that he loved her very dearly still? It
gave him, indeed, a sharp and cruel pang to think that it had come to
this--that the face he had so worshipped he must now fly from like a
culprit--that for his own sake, in sheer self-defence, he must
avoid her presence, as if he had committed against her some deadly
injury--against _her_, for whom, even now, he would willingly have
laid down his life! Poor Dick! He little knew, but it was the last
pang he was destined to feel from his untoward attachment, and it
punished him far more severely than he deserved.
Blundering hastily up a by-street, he ran into the very arms of a
gentleman who had turned aside to apply a latch-key at the door of a
rambling unfurnished-looking house, sadly in want of paint, whitewash,
and general repair. The gentleman, with an exclamation of delight, put
both hands on Mr. Stanmore's shoulders.
"This _is_ a piece of luck!" exclaimed the latter. "Why, it's 'old Sir
Simon the King'!"
His mind reverted insensibly to the pleasant Oxford days, and he
used a nickname universally bestowed on his friend by the men of his
college.
"And what can _you_ be doing here at this time of year?" asked Simon.
"In the first place, how came you to be in London? In the second, how
did you ever get so far along Oxford Street? In the third, being here,
won't you come up to the painting-room? I'll show you my sketches;
I'll give you some 'baccy--I haven't forgot Iffley Lock and your vile
habit of stopping to drink. I can even supply you with beer! We'll
have a smoke, and a talk over old times."
"Willingly," answered Dick, declining the beer, however, on the plea
that such potations only went well with boating or cricket, and
followed the painter up-stairs into an exceedingly uncomfortable room,
of which the principal object of furniture seemed to be an easel,
bearing a sketch, apparently to be transferred hereafter into some
unfinished picture.
Dick was in no frame of mind to converse upon his own affairs;
accepting the proffered cigar, and taking the only seat in the place,
he preferred listening to his friend, who got to work at once, and
talked disjointedly while he painted.
"I can't complain," said Simon, in answer to the other's questions
concerning his prosperity and success. "I was always a plodding sort
of fellow, as you remember. Not a genius--I don't _think_ I've the
divine gift. Sometimes I hope it may come. I've worked hard, I grant
you--very hard; but I've had extraordinary luck--marvellous! What do
you think of that imp's tail?--Isn't it a trifle too long?"
"I'm no judge of imps," answered Dick. "He's horribly ugly. Go on
about yourself."
"Well, as I was saying," continued Simon, foreshortening his imp the
while, "my luck has been wonderful. It all began with _you_. If you
hadn't gone fishing there, I should never have seen Norway. If I
hadn't seen it, I couldn't have painted it."
"I'm not sure that follows," interrupted Dick.
"Well, I _shouldn't_ have painted it, then," resumed the artist. "And
the credit I got for those Norway sketches was perfectly absurd. I see
their faults now. They're cold and crude, and one or two are quite
contrary to the first principles of art. I should like to paint them
all over again. But still, if I hadn't been to Norway, I shouldn't be
here now."
"No more should I," observed Dick, puffing out a volume of smoke. "I
should have been 'marry-ed to a mermy-ed' by this time, if you had
shown a proper devotion to your art, and the customary indifference to
your friend."
"O, that was nothing!" said the painter, blushing. "Any other fellow
could have pulled you out just as well. I say, Stanmore, how jolly it
was over there! Those were happy days. And yet I don't wish to have
them back again--do you?"
Dick sighed and held his peace. For him it seemed that the light heart
and joyous carelessness of that bright youthful time was gone, never
to come again.
"I have learned so much since then," continued Simon, putting a little
grey into his imp's muzzle, "and unlearned so much, too, which is better
still. Mannerism, Stanmore--mannerism is the great enemy of art. Now,
I'll explain what I mean in two words. In the first place, you observe
the light from that chink streaming down on my imp's back; well, in the
picture, you know--"
"Where _is_ the picture?" exclaimed Dick, whose cigar was finished,
and who had no scruples in thus unceremoniously interrupting a
professional lecture which previous experience told him might be
wearisome. "Let's see it. Let's see _all_ the pictures. Illustration's
better than argument, and I can't understand anything unless it's set
before me in bright colours, under my very nose."
Good-natured Simon desisted from his occupation at once, and began
lifting picture after picture, as they stood in layers against the
wall, to place them in a favourable light for the inspection of
his friend. Many and discursive were his criticisms on these, the
progressive results of eye, and hand, and brain, improving every
day. Here the drawing was faulty, there the tints were coarse. This
betrayed mannerism, that lacked power, and in a very ambitious
landscape, enriched with wood, water, and mountain, a patchy sky
spoiled the effect of the whole.
Nevertheless it seemed that he was himself not entirely dissatisfied
with his work, and whenever his friend ventured on the diffident
criticism of an amateur, Simon demonstrated at great length that each
fault, as he pointed it out, was in truth a singular merit and beauty
in the picture.
Presently, with a face of increased importance, he moved a large
oblong canvas from its hiding-place, to prop it artistically at such
an angle as showed the lights and shades of its finished portion to
the best advantage. Then he fell back a couple of paces, contemplating
it in silence with his head on one side, and so waited for his
friend's opinion.
But Dick was mute. Something in this picture woke up the pain of a
recent wound festering in his heart, and yet through all the smart and
tingling came a strange sensation of relief, like that with which a
styptic salves a sore.
"What do you think of it?" asked the artist. "I want your candid
opinion, Stanmore--impartial--unprejudiced, I tell you. I hope great
things from it. I believe it far and away the best I've painted yet.
Look into the work. O, it will stand inspection. You might examine it
with a microscope. Then, the conception, eh? And the drawing's not
amiss. A little more this way--you catch the outline of his eyebrow,
with the turn of the Rhymer's head."
"Hang the Rhymer's head!" replied Dick, "I don't care about it. I
won't look at it. I _can't_ look at it, man, with such a woman as
_that_ in the picture. Old boy, you've won immortality at last!"
But Simon's face fell.
"That's a great fault," he answered gravely. "The details, though
kept down as accessories to the whole, should yet be worked out so
carefully as to possess individual merit of their own. I see, though;
I see how to remedy the defect you have suggested. I can easily bring
him out by darkening the shadows of the background. Then, this fairy
at his elbow is paltry, and too near him besides. I shall paint her
out altogether. She takes the eye off my principal figures, and breaks
that grand line of light pouring in from the morning sky. Don't you
think so?"
But Dick gave no answer. With feverish thirst and longing, he was
drinking in the beauty of the Fairy Queen; and had not Simon Perkins
been the dullest of observers, and the least conceited of painters, he
must have felt intensely flattered by the effect of his work.
"So you like her," said he, after a pause, during which, in truth, he
had been considering whether he should not paint out the intrusive
fairy that very afternoon.
"Like her!" replied the other. "It's the image of the most beautiful
face I ever saw in my life; only it's softer and even more beautiful.
I'll tell you what, old fellow, put a price on that picture and I'll
have it, cost what it may! Only you must give me a little time," added
Dick somewhat ruefully, reflecting that he had spent a good deal of
money lately, and rent-day was still a long way off.
Simon smiled.
"I wonder what you'd think of the original," said he, "the model who
sits to me for my Fairy Queen! I can tell you that face on the canvas
is no more to be compared to hers than I am to Velasquez. And yet
Velasquez must have been a beginner once."
"I don't believe there's such a woman--two such women--in London,"
replied his friend, correcting himself. "I can hardly imagine such
eyes, such an expression. It's what the fellows who write poetry call
'the beauty of a dream,' and I'll never say poetry is nonsense again.
No, that's neither more nor less than an imaginary angel, Simon.
Simply an impossible duck!"
"Would you like to see her?" asked the painter, laughing. "She'll be
here in five minutes. I do believe that's her step on the stairs now."
A strange wild hope thrilled through Dick Stanmore's heart. Could it
be possible that Lady Bearwarden had employed his friend to paint her
likeness in this fancy picture, perhaps under a feigned name, and was
she coming to take her sitting now?
All his stoicism, all his philosophy, vanished on the instant. He
would remain where he was though he should die for it. O, to see her,
to be in the same room with her, to look in her eyes, and hear her
voice once more!
A gown rustled, a light step was heard, the door opened, and a
sweet laughing voice rung out its greeting to the painter from the
threshold.
"So late, Simon! Shameful, isn't it? But I've got all they wanted.
Such bargains! I suppose nobody ever did so much shopping in so short
a--"
She caught sight of Dick, stopped, blushed, and made a very
fascinating little curtsey, as they were formally introduced; but next
time she spoke the merriment had gone out of her voice. It had become
more staid, more formal, and its deeper, fuller tones reminded him
painfully of Maud.
[Illustration: "She caught sight of Dick."]
Yes. Had he not known Lady Bearwarden so well, he thought it would
have been quite possible for him to have mistaken this beautiful young
lady for that faithless peeress. The likeness was extraordinary,
ridiculous. Not that he felt the least inclined to laugh. The features
were absolutely the same, and a certain backward gesture of the head,
a certain trick of the mouth and chin were identical with the manner
of Lady Bearwarden, in those merry days that seemed so long ago
now, when she had been Maud Bruce. Only Miss Algernon's face had a
softness, a kindly trustful expression he never remembered on the
other, and her large pleading eyes seemed as if they could neither
kindle with anger nor harden to freezing glances of scorn.
As for the Fairy Queen, he looked from the picture to its original,
and felt constrained to admit that, wondrously beautiful as he had
thought its likeness on canvas, the face before him was infinitely
superior to the painter's fairest and most cherished work.
Dick went away of course almost immediately, though sorely against his
will. Contrary to her wont, Miss Algernon, who was rather a mimic and
full of fun, neither imitated the gestures nor ridiculed the bearing
of this chance visitor. "She had not observed him much," she said,
when taxed by Simon with this unusual forbearance. This was false. But
"she might know him again, perhaps, if they met." This, I imagine, was
true.
And Dick, wending his way back to his hotel buried in thought, passed
without recognising it the spot where he met Lady Bearwarden one short
hour ago. He was pondering, no doubt, on the face he had just seen--on
its truth, its purity, its fresh innocent mirth, its dazzling beauty,
more, perhaps, than on its extraordinary likeness to hers who had
brought him the one great misfortune of his life.